Number Eight, from 1975

I have been getting requests to finish my 8th "meme." (The other 7 are here in case you missed them.) It's hard for me to choose an 8th and final one as I could give you 888 from my colorful life. Fortunately for you dear readers, I have forgotten most of my childhood. So here I go, by popular request with number 8. A cube. A Fibonacci number. A theory that makes use of an example about the rate at which rabbits breed but reminds me how much I hated math. Sorry, I digress.

Blog this Mom suggested I write about the time I snuck out of the house to go to the Welcome to my Nightmare concert, my parents had forbidden me to go to. Good enough.


It is 1975. I am 17. My carry a big stick, religious, control freak mother considered Alice Cooper a menace to society. With his graphically theatrical stage show of blood and gore that included dead babies, black widows and his own simulated death via guillotine, she considered his performances as a sign of the apocalypse. I considered them a sign of the ultimate revolution against parental control. And I wanted to join.

My parents pretty much kept us under lock, key and alarm system. (My brother and I both figured out how to get out any time we wanted and he ran away numerous times - but that is stuff for another blog, or his blog - if he has one.)

I tried to calculate the odds of getting caught and decided whatever they were, it would be worth it to see Alice Cooper. In my attempt to duck the Fort Knox-like motion sensors and the 3rd from the bottom step alarm, the wired basement window and the weight sensitive driveway bell, I forgot my purse. I made it 15 miles to the venue but without the $16.00 I needed for a general admission ticket. So I determinedly stood outside the ticket office and panhandled for coins the kindly passer-bys would chuck at me. Hey, I made it into the concert and back home before my parents were the wiser. I am nothing if not determined, and that concert was worth every penny - priceless even.

The other day a lady came up to me in the parking lot of Vons, with a story about how she was supporting her homeless family after being laid off in a bad job market and she needed money for tampons or something. I handed her $3.00 and went in to do my shopping. When I was going through the checkout, I saw her with my $3.00, buying lottery tickets in the front of the store. Creative. Nothing if not determined, I guess. I wonder if she knows the odds of winning are 80 million to 1. She probably hates math too.